Crossing state lines
by phineyj
Summary: What did House really see after he electrocuted himself in 97 Seconds?


Author's note: Just a bit of fun. Also, before anyone points it out, yes I do know she's already kissed him! That's not what she means. Spoilers for 97 Seconds.

"So, let me get this straight." Cameron looks at you across the plastic table top. "You deliberately stuck a knife in an electrical socket so you could experience the afterlife?"

"Yeah."

It does sound a bit stupid when she puts it like that. You were testing a hypothesis. It was science.

Cameron's hair is back to its normal brown and she's wearing the crisp lilac shirt; the one you like. You could've hit that. Why didn't you? You can't remember right now.

Two greasy burgers and fries sit on chipped white plates on the table in front of you; hers is untouched. You look down at your hand where it's resting on your leg; it's as raw and burnt as a badly-barbecued steak and it hurts like hell. But it's distracting your pain receptors nicely, so you can't feel your leg at all, which is a bonus.

"You get bored of the Lindsay Lohan look?" you enquire, taking a fry off her plate. It tastes of nothing, airy; like an absence of potato.

"You prefer it this way."

You do, actually. You can tell the difference between Cameron and a hooker, whatever you might say to the contrary.

"Where is this?"

You look around. You are surrounded by a sea of empty tables; brown-topped plastic with orange stacking chairs. Grey-faced people walk past dragging heavy bags and somewhere a baby cries in a choked, hopeless way, while a nasal recorded voice recites a series of destinations: Buffalo; Toronto. Change at Hicktown for Nowhere Ville. Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.

"The Greyhound bus station in Detroit," Cameron says, brightly.

"I always was a cheap date."

"You're just going to flirt? Last time we did this you felt me up with a robot."

"Yeah, well, last time we obviously had a more extensive budget."

"Last time, you didn't want to die. Someone wanted to kill you. There's a difference."

"I didn't want to die. I just wanted to prove that angels don't exist outside bad movies."

"So, you don't want to die, but you don't particularly care if you live, either?"

You shrug. Isn't that how everybody feels on a bad day? Just lately, your life's been a series of bad days skewered together with pain like some sort of evil kebab. You get up in the morning, you work, you eat. Then all your team abandons you.

"We didn't abandon you, House. You made us go."

"Hey, I was thinking that to myself. Anyway, I don't remember twisting your arm."

A fly buzzes, trapped inside the dirty windows of the café.

Cameron shakes her hair down from its clip and undoes her shirt, button by button. She gets up, pushing the plastic chair back from the table with a scraping sound and drops the garment on the dirty beige vinyl of the floor, where it lies like a pool of miracle whip.

The chorus of the damned shuffling by with their wheeled suitcases takes no notice whatsoever.

She stands there above you in her pink bra; you can count every one of her ribs. Her jeans are low-cut enough that you can see a flash of her matching panties. You swallow, your mouth suddenly dry.

With a whoosh she takes off, hanging in the air a moment before she's above you; she's all you can see, blocking out the light; taking all the oxygen from your lungs.

"So I'm still in my own mind? I haven't gone anywhere else?" you gasp out, as she floats higher, out of your reach, her dark hair hanging down like tendrils.

"There is nowhere else," she says, and ascends, her wings filling the whole space with a beating that you suddenly can't distinguish from the pulsing of blood through your veins and arteries.

----

You come round to find Wilson regarding you reproachfully from behind a clipboard. He looks like he's not slept in a couple of days.

"So, you saw…nothing?" he asks, curiously.

Like you're going to tell him you were discussing the nature of existence in a café with an angel. An angel who bore a remarkable resemblance to your ex-employee. You don't want to wake up next time and find you're in the psych ward with the other window-lickers.

---

You see her the day after, exiting the ER.

She's blonde. She's beautiful. She looks at you with that expression that says she's got you all figured out. This time, you're afraid she has.

She walks up to you, grabs your hand, pulls you close. You can smell the ER on her: latex, alcohol; blood.

"Next time you feel like dicing with death?" she whispers in your ear.

You raise an eyebrow. "Jump under a truck to make sure?" you enquire.

"Remember there's something you haven't done yet."

And she kisses you.


End file.
